


Standing In The Shadows

by reason_says



Category: Reservoir Dogs
Genre: Casual Sociopathy, Gambling, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-26
Updated: 2009-06-26
Packaged: 2017-10-12 20:12:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/128598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reason_says/pseuds/reason_says
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seventeen years after the events of <em>Reservoir Dogs</em> [i.e. present day]. Based off an unstructured RP in which Blonde has recently been informed that he is, in fact, a sociopath, and responds by questioning his existence. It goes without saying, I hope, that this is an extremely specific AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Standing In The Shadows

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I have nothing to do with _Reservoir Dogs_ and am making no money from this.

**Standing In The Shadows**  
Checking his rearview mirror, he backed out of his parking space and directly into a businessman. He rolled his eyes and chuckled at the man's shrieks, reminding himself that this was why it was worth it to steal cars every now and then. You can't be traced if you're not using your own plates. At least, not if you switch it up.

Later that day, having dumped the stolen car, stopped by his apartment, and headed out on I-15, he began to – horror of horrors – think about what he'd done. Why the hell had he run over that man? He didn't know him, so it wasn't revenge, and he hadn't even stuck around to watch him die – or, let's be honest, to make sure he died – so what was the point? Why the fuck was he doing this?

Wait a minute. Why was he doing _what?_ Killing people? That was easy. He was doing it because what had they ever done for him, because it's not like they matter, because why stop now. That was why. He shook his head. Shit, he must really be out of it, if he was letting that fucking clown try to tell him what was in his head. He cranked the radio up as he neared the state line. Anyway, that's what this little road trip was for. Get out of the city, see the sights, kill some new and interesting people, and maybe figure out what the fuck he was supposed to do now that he had a name for what he was.

He'd lived in or near LA all his life, even after the job that went wrong. Well, more wrong than any of the others. He still didn't know how the fuck he'd survived – he'd had _how_ many slugs pumped into him by that little punk? When he got out of the hospital he'd tried to track the fucker down, make him pay both for that and for double-crossing Joe and Nice Guy, but he never knew the kid's name anyway, so that went nowhere fast. Privately, he hoped the asshole was still alive somewhere. Just so he could get his revenge his way. Not least because, in the course of trying to track down that doublecrossing rat, he'd found that Joe and Nice Guy had been killed. And by that Mr. White bastard, too. Why the fuck that guy'd turn on the Cabots he had no idea, but he guessed it had something to do with his creepy relationship with the double-crosser. Shit, maybe they were both rats! He wouldn't put it past them, he knew what that sorta guy got up to and he didn't want any part of it.

He shook his head. His past wasn't the point of this trip. He'd done his best to forget it in the past seventeen years, he wasn't gonna drag it out again just because some freak in facepaint wanted to shake him up. Too much thinking was bad for the brain, anyway.

He slept in the car that night, crossing the state line early the next morning. He wasn't sure exactly where he was trying to go, but Vegas was as good a place as any, right? 'Sides, he'd never been, and why not start somewhere new and ridiculous on a self-searching journey, or whatever the fuck this was. 'F'nothing else, there'd be plenty of distractions in case he got too introspective and weird.

Once he'd managed a room in a motel that didn't look too run-down or too goddamned expensive, he took stock of his options. He could find someone to fuck, but the broad at the desk'd made damn sure he knew it wasn't "that sorta place", and it'd be more trouble than it was worth to get someone past her. Course he could still find someone, but, much as he hated to admit it, he was getting kinda old to be fucking whores, or anyone else, in alleyways. So that was out, least for now.

Well, really, what the fuck else do you do in Vegas? An hour later he was smirking his way up to the blackjack table, absolutely not taking stock of the other losers surrounding him to see which of them would be easiest to knock off if it came to that. Which would be why he absolutely did not see someone across the table who looked disturbingly familiar. And he most definitely did not keep staring at the man, trying to figure out what the hell was going on with the world.

Only in a place as weird as Vegas could he come face-to-face with a dead ringer for a guy who'd died seventeen years ago.

What the fuck was this, anyway? The one place he'd figured he could escape from whatever the hell was going on in his head, and back comes a reminder of one of the worst parts of his past. Oh, not the guy himself, he'd been great. Too much of a daddy's boy, really, but loyal even when his dad'd had reservations about certain... wild-card aspects, lets say, of his personality. Convinced Joe of his trustworthiness until even the old man didn't hesitate before offering him jobs, not even when his son was just a little too obvious about their relationship and he'd had to rein it back with jokes and insults before Joe got the right idea.

Because yeah, there'd been that, too, but he wasn't _thinking_ about it right now because he was _not_ staring at the guy who looked like Nice Guy Eddie woulda looked now if he'd lived.

Not that he could know for sure, and he was probably cracking up anyway, but the guy really did look annoyingly familiar. His hair was shorter than Eddie's had been, and he was about twice as fat, but his eyes...

Shaking his head, he pushed away from the table before he'd even laid down a bet, heading for the slots instead. Some shit just didn't need thinking about. He was so intent on not paying attention to anything but the approaching machines that he didn't even notice he was being followed until he was startled by a hand on his arm and had to actively restrain himself from pulling a knife on the casino floor. He turned slowly, narrowing his eyes as he saw, still clutching his sleeve, the way-too-familiar man.

The guy hastily let go of his arm and stepped back. "Hey, no offense, guy. I just..." He paused, glancing around. "Can we talk somewhere? Somewhere not here?"

What the fuck was this, now? Guy'd probably noticed him _not_ looking at him, and – oh fuck no. He would have laughed if it hadn't been so pathetic. Surely this guy couldn't think he had a chance with him. Hell, even if he _were_ queer, he'd have better sense than to fuck some guy he met in a casino, for chrissakes. He glanced around, reassured himself that no one was paying undue attention, and smirked.

He'd half expected the widening of the guy's eyes at that, but when the smirk was returned he began to get uneasy. Better let this guy down quick, so he could get back to forgetting himself. (He deliberately did not linger on what it meant that he, of all people, could apparently be made uneasy now, just by someone who resembled a dead man. All the more reason to get this freakshow over with.) Never more grateful for his learned habit of checking the exits when he entered a room, he jerked his head toward a nondescript door.

"C'mon, through there."

Once they were through the door and satisfied that no one was about to walk down the hallway they'd found themselves in, the man turned to him. "Look, this is probably gonna sound freaky, but –"

"I'm just gonna stop you there, if you don't mind. You're damn right it's freaky, and I don't go in for that kinda shit. Now if that's clear, how about you let me get back to my gambling." He turned, but hadn't even reached the door when the other man stepped toward him. Before either one could blink, there was a knife pointing at the guy's throat.

The man stared for a beat, eyes wide and jaw slack, before grinning. "Jesus, it really is you, isn't it?"

He didn't lower the knife. "What the fuck do you mean? Of course I'm me. Who the hell are you?"

The other man shook his head, still grinning, and stepped forward, dodging the knife. "Don't pretend you don't know me, man. I saw you lookin' at me out there. Jesus, I can't believe you're alive!" He stepped closer, stopping himself before they actually touched. "You really don't know? Come on, who do you think I am?"

He shook his head. This wasn't happening. Dead men didn't come back to life seventeen years in the future, and what the fuck would Eddie be doing in Vegas, anyway? But at the same time... "Nice Guy?"

Only Eddie would know what he meant by the name, so it seemed a fair enough bet – one that paid off when the man who did, in fact, appear to be Nice Guy Eddie smiled even wider, his eyes crinkling in his expanded face. "It's just Eddie now, mostly."

He couldn't stop himself: he grabbed the man – Eddie – into a hug before he could react. So sue him, it had been seventeen years and he'd thought the guy was dead, he was allowed some emotion now and then. Thankfully Eddie seemed to feel the same way, laughing as he returned the hug. After a while they pulled back, staring at each other in disbelief.

"Man, I can't believe this. I thought you died seventeen years ago! Hell, I saw you on the floor! That fucking rat." Eddie shook his head. "But now – What the fuck happened?"

"Funny story, that one. _I_ don't even really know. Woke up in the morgue, freaked a lot of doctors out, spent about a week in the hospital and got the hell out. Don't really think about it much. Weirdest thing's ever happened to me, though, I'll tell you that much. Apparently all the doctors thought I was dead too, but shows what good they are, huh?"

"Man, that's weird even for our line of work!"

"You're tellin' me? Come to that, I heard that Mr. White asshole killed you and Joe. Guessin' that's about as true as my death was?"

"Well, no, it's half true. Bastard killed Daddy but he got shot himself before he could get a decent sight, so he just grazed me. Double-crossing fucker. I tell ya, I haven't been on a job before or since that went as cross-eyed as that one."

"So what happened to White? Joe kill him? Hell, what about that Orange punk?"

"Those two got gunned down, near as I could hear. Hell, considering us, they might still be alive somewhere! Sure as shit hope not, though. After what they did?" Eddie shook his head in disgust. "Some things don't bear thinkin' about." He looked up, then. "Damn, it's good to see you, Vic."

"Vic? Man, I haven't gone by that in… years." He paused. "Just about seventeen years. Where the hell have you been?"

"Ah, here and there. Keeping up Daddy's business, mostly. It's hard work organizing jobs like he did! Think I'm doin' pretty well out of it, though. Try not to get out to the casinos too much, that helps, 'cause if I'm not gambling I'm not losing money."

"Yeah, so... Vegas? Really?"

"Ah, I dunno. The wife moved us out here, I guess I just –"

"Wait, you're married?"

"Shit, no! Got divorced about a year after we moved here. Kept nagging me, why don't you get a real job, where do you go all the time, how do we have all this money if you're not working, shit like that. What do I need with some dumb cooze trying to run my life?"

"A fair and true point." He smirked, finally slipping the knife back into his boot and catching Eddie's eye.

"How the hell'd you get a knife in here, anyway?"

"What, in this hall? Carried it, same as always."

"You know what the fuck I mean, don't even –"

"Yeah, keep your shirt on, I know." He pulled the knife out again, flicking it open proudly. "Ceramic. Zirconium or some shit, no metal in the whole thing. My new favourite, ever since I got 'er. Does just what a standard blade'll do, but it's a whole hell of a lot harder to get caught now. "

"You're somethin' else, man." Eddie shook his head, half in wonderment and half in nervousness. "Hey, so what should I call you? I mean, you ain't been goin' by Vic, you said, so what's your name now?"

He tightened his lips. He'd been waiting for this one. "Blonde."

"What, like –"

"Like the job, yeah. Sure as hell wasn't gonna give the hospital fucks my real name, so Blonde just sorta stuck. Got to the point where I don't feel right if people call me Vic anymore. Feels like they know something maybe I don't want 'em to know."

Eddie nodded. "Blonde, then. Sure. Hey, can I still call you Blondie?" Blonde cuffed him around the back of the head and laughed as he led the way back onto the casino floor.

Some time later, they were back at the motel, having carefully avoided the wrath of the bitch at the front desk by doing their best impressions of law-abiding citizens. Her scowl implied their impressions needed work, but they didn't really care, because as soon as they were through the door to his room Blonde pushed Eddie up against the wall and pressed their mouths together like they hadn't been apart for even a day, let alone seventeen years. Eddie responded in kind, arching as Blonde ground against him.

"Shit, Vi– Blonde, agh, shit, you have no idea how much I missed you."

"Yeah? That why you never came looking for me? You missed me so much you didn't want to know I was alive?"

Eddie pulled away, frowning, and Blonde laughed, short and sharp. "Just kidding, douchebag. We ever gonna make it to the bed, or what?"

"Oh, with sweet talk like that, how could I say no?"

They made it to the bed.

Later they lay in the dark, not-quite-sleeping. The logistics had been different than they had been when they were both younger and generally in better shape, but the basics still applied. Thank fuck even the cheap motels these days provided some sort of lotion-thing in the bathroom, though, or they might have been reduced to jerking each other off like horny teenagers. As it was they lay tangled together, Blonde still inside Eddie and the blankets on the floor.

"You know..." Blonde ran a hand down Eddie's side, stopping at his hip.

"Hrm?" Eddie shifted, stopping with a grunt as the other man strengthened his grip. "What?"

"It really is bullshit, you know," Blonde continued in his most terrifyingly conversational tone, "you not even bothering to look for me once the job was over."

"What – Christ, are you still pissed about that? I thought you were dead, for fuck's sake! What the hell was I supposed to do, go searching the morgues to bring you back to life?" He struggled to free himself from Blonde's grip, but Vegas living had made him even softer than before, and he was unsuccessful.

"Yes, you asshole, sarcasm aside, that's exactly what you were supposed to do. _Look_ for me. Make sure I was actually _dead_ before you fucked off to Vegas with some whore." Blonde tightened his grip further and thrust sharply into Eddie, forcing a strangled moan out of the other man. "I looked for you, you know. I couldn't find your body, but I fucking _looked_. For months, until all the bodies cycled through and I still hadn't found you."

Eddie, caught between his urge to run far away from the suddenly terrifying man behind him and his desire to grind back on Blonde's cock, settled for staying perfectly still and whimpering. "But – shit, Blondie, my Dad was dead, everyone else was dead, the whole fuckin' job was a wash, I wasn't exactly thinkin' clearly for the next few years, you know? Hell, I only stayed outta jail 'cause Daddy'd worked with the judge this one–" he broke off with a groan as Blonde changed angles, noticing distractedly that Blonde's hand was no longer on his hip.

Suddenly he was not distracted at all. He was very focused indeed, because Blonde had retrieved a knife – Eddie didn't know if it was the ceramic one or another he'd randomly stashed around the room, and wasn't really in a position to ask – and flicked it open next to Eddie's ear before pressing the edge against his throat.

Blonde's thrusts had sped up, but Eddie's body was no longer making more than a tacit acknowledgement of the stimulation, all his nerves focused instead on the _fucking knife at his throat_. Blonde laughed against his neck, pressing down slightly until Eddie could feel the bite of it against his skin, until blood welled up under the blade.

"See, the fact that you think you just gave me good excuses tells me all I need to know. If you'd ever really cared, youda looked for me anyway. Your dad was dead, you lost the diamonds, what-the-fuck-ever, I was _gone_ , and that should have been motivation enough. You being gone was enough for me until I got back on my feet, until I realized I wasn't gonna find you. But you, you didn't even look!"

The knife, at this point, was being drawn gently across Eddie's throat, no longer enough to draw blood but still definitely unpleasant. Blonde's thrusts had become frantic, and his calm tone was betrayed by his harsh pants as he sped up.

"You're a fucking liar, Eddie, one way or the other, and I don't have time for liars."

Eddie felt Blonde's hips still with one last jerk as he felt the knife press down harder than before, then a wrenching pain and a flood of warmth down his chest and before long he didn't feel anything.

Blonde sighed, pulling out of Eddie's body and wiping himself with the sheet. He probably shouldn't have done that, if only for the questions it'd bring up if he didn't do a decent clean-up job, but hell with it. The one person he'd thought he actually felt more than blank disdain for had turned out to be nothing but a liar and a waste of his time. He was entitled to a little revenge.

He stood up, wincing as his aging muscles protested the workout he'd just put them through, and slowly dressed, staring at the body on the bed. Well. Maybe it was just time to accept some basic truths about himself. This was one of them, and he wasn't sure he wanted to question it.

As he wrapped Eddie's body in the now blood-soaked sheets and left it in the shower for housekeeping to find, he couldn't suppress a shudder. Basic truth, maybe, but this was going a little far.

It was time to go back to Reseda.


End file.
